


a world all about us ;

by 3rdgymbros



Category: Black Clover - Tabata Yuki (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Child Reader, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fluff, Mentioned Fuegoleon Vermillion, Mentioned Noelle Silva, Parent-Child Relationship, Platonic Relationships, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-24 18:47:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22002715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3rdgymbros/pseuds/3rdgymbros
Summary: [ nozel silva x daughter! reader ]
Relationships: Nozel Silva/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 63
Collections: 💙





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a review !

Once your lessons are over, and you’ve thanked your tutors politely, you return to the castle with your nanny, walking up the shady tree-covered avenue. Lanterns burn before the wrought-iron gates of the castle, and guards stand to attention. The gates swing open and you proceed up the long drive to the turrets and towers of the great castle. Already, shadows are dense amongst the trees although a streak of pink still clings to the sky. Marble statuary gleams dimly on great swathes of lawn.

Later, after a warm bath and a change of clothes, you abandon your nanny, slip out of your room, climb up stairs and travel along corridors and cross a great ballroom. On tiptoes, you knock on the door to your father’s office, somehow managing to turn the knob and scamper in when you hear his cool, clipped voice telling you to _‘enter’_. Hardened magic knights of the Silver Eagles turn to stare at this new manifestation of starched white and purple linen, complete with black patent pumps, clean white stockings, and shining well-brushed hair.

“ **( Your Name )** ,” Though surprise flits across Nozel’s face at how you’re wandering around the mansion without your nanny, it quickly fades into one of resignation – this is the third time this week, after all, and it’s quickly becoming a habit for you to give the slip to your hassled-looking minders. You giggle, and rush over to cling onto his legs, chubby baby cheeks melting into an endearing grin with a cheerful gap, the missing front tooth having been knocked out during training with your father. You’re still incredibly proud of it, and flaunt it at every turn. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s your dinner time, Daddy,” You say imperiously, even though it’s barely six, and the cooks are still preparing the meal. You just want the chance to spend more time with him, seeing as how your Mother is visiting family in the country and your older siblings have left with her. Your little five-year old mind worries that your father might be lonely in a house that seems too impossibly large and cold. “Let’s go and eat.”

“ _My_ dinner time?” Nozel arches an elegant eyebrow, and you wind yourself free from his leg in favor of grasping tightly onto his hand with all the strength you can possibly muster – which isn’t to say, very much. 

You nod, lips twisting into a pout, managing to quash down the giggles that threaten to erupt. You’re the only girl in the family of five rambunctious boys, and it’s become glaringly obvious that your father has a soft spot for you, his youngest girl.

His face softens as soon as you enter the room, and he makes a point of seeking you out everyday to hear about your adventures in school, as busy as he is with paperwork and missions, and, as a result, the two of you are closer than ever.

You wait impatiently as your father dismisses his squad members, keeping up a constant string of tugging upon his pinky finger all the while. Normally, you’d bid them goodbye with a wide smile and friendly eyes, but today, you can barely restrain yourself from bouncing up and down on the tips of your toes in your impatience. The process seems slow and tedious to you, but as soon as the last of them leave the room, you crowd closer to your father, turning the full force of wide and shiny eyes onto him.

“Daddy, can we eat ice cream?”

Nozel, to his credit, manages to stand his ground, even as he is presented with large eyes and a quivering bottom lip.

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“Please, Daddy? Please?”

Nozel, to his credit, manages to stand his ground for all of five seconds.

“One scoop. But only after dinner.”


	2. Chapter 2

Blinding light and fire fly through the sky, spinning the earth off her axis. Your ears ringing and deafened, you stumble over debris and your own feet. The chaos around you is frighteningly clear, people running for their lives as rotting corpses in tattered rags swarm forwards, their hands outstretched and grabbing uselessly at empty air. The Magic Knights are summoned, trying uselessly to keep civilians sheltered, but are soon overwhelmed by the sheer number of enemies.

Another blast, closer this time, shaking the earth upon which you stand so much that you lose your balance. Your head smacks against rough stone, and you feel something wet trickling thickly down your face; the collar of your white dress is soon stained an alarming shade of crimson.

Your body cries out as it registers the pain, but still, you manage to struggle to your feet, running from the screaming hollering panic, following the mass exodus. Running, rocked and jostled by terrified people, you find yourself pushed against a wall, shivering as you listen to the wild shouts still coming from nearby.

You curl into a tight ball, huddling deeper into yourself and your coat of white fur. You can’t help but think that this was a terrible time to sneak out of the castle to go exploring.

You think of your father longingly, wishing that he were here so that you could huddle close to him for comfort. A sob sticks in your throat, but you stubbornly refuse to cry. Even as young as you are, you recognize that you’re of the noble house Silva, and your stubborn, childish pride keeps you from shedding a tear in this moment.

It’s the fluttering of a ragged cloak, the shift of a boot at the edge of darkness that informs you aren’t quite alone. Furiously, you scrub at your bloodied face with an equally dirtied hand, trying your best to mimic the scowl that your father so often wears.

“Hey, little girl.” His one eye bores into you, studying you, this dirtied, bloodied, child in a purple and white dress of drawn thread work, with matching hair ribbons. His long nails glint like claws; long, unkempt hair flows over his shoulders and swirls around his face. The scent of ash and burnt flesh clings to him. “Do you like the Clover Kingdom?”

Realization dawns, along with a sinking horror that tells you this man is the source of the chaos. Still, you inhale and try to pretend that you’re brave, that you’re not a quivering seven year old, wishing desperately for your father. _Brave, brave,_ _just like your father, the captain of the Silver Eagles_. “S-Stop this at once! Call them off! People are getting hurt!”

“That’s the point.” The man is calm. Too calm. There’s a wild, whacked-out crazy in his eyes. _“I’m going to burn this whole country down to the ground.”_

* * *

Your savior comes in the form of a short boy with ash-blonde hair, clad in a black and gold robe. Someone from the Black Bulls. You recall your father’s disdain for the rowdy, rambunctious squad – the irony of it all, how the very squad he despises ends up saving his daughter.

He charges in like an avenging angel ready for battle, wielding a massive sword and swearing to protect this country, its people, and _you_ , for everyone to hear. Your hands and feet move in a flurry of desperation; you don’t think, you just dash over to him, clinging tightly to his leg.

“Kid, are you okay?”

“Not kid,” You mumble, the last dregs of formality slipping away. Your bottom lip quivers. Still, you stubbornly refuse to cry. A bird flutters down, makes a home in your hair, which probably resembles a bird’s nest, with the sorry state that it’s in. “I’m **( Your Name )**.”

“I’m Asta. **( Your Name )** , get behind me.” He glances, squints at your fine, delicate features as though you hold the key to a particularly hard puzzle that he has yet to solve. Then, he turns back to the hoard of corpses, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword. “I’ll definitely protect you!”

* * *

_Scared._

_Scared._

_Daddy._

_Daddy._

You can’t say the words out loud. You’re gripped tight by fear, by the horrific helplessness in which you find yourself caught up in. You have no grimoire, and the meagre training that you’ve received so far seems to have deserted you. You may be an eagle but you’re still a fledgling learning to fly, and in this moment, your wings are clipped and you’re forced to grovel in the dirt.

A flurry of attacks fly at you; Asta stumbles, and you think, _oh, this is it_ , closing your eyes and bracing for the ensuing pain _._ Uselessly, your hands fly up to cover your face, as though they can still protect you.

Instead, a protective bubble of water surrounds you, cast by a familiar mage clad in the white and purple robes of your house.

“Auntie Noelle!” Your face lights up. You cry out for your Aunt, grateful for one familiar face amidst the flurry of confusion.

“ **( Your Name )**?” Shock and confusion mar her otherwise beautiful face. “What are you doing here? You’re hurt – Where’s Big Brother Nozel?”

You shake your head. “I went outside.”

“Without telling him?” Noelle asks, sharply, sounding almost like your father whenever he’s particularly displeased. “He isn’t going to be happy.”

Your pouting lower lip screams a refute; still, you are unable to think of a suitable retort or explanation.

* * *

_"_ _Even that extra special anti-magic sword of yours is pretty pointless if your enemy’s airborne and you can’t touch him.”_

Your own restlessness and turmoil fills you then, trumping over the fear for the briefest of seconds. You think of your grandmother’s face, staring at you from a portrait in the main hall, how it’s as if her ghost is rising up from the mists of time to stare at you, expecting _more_ from her granddaughter. You think of how she and your father are both revered Magic Knights, and how that same blood currently flows through your veins.

 _All that power, all that untouched potential,_ you think, staring desperately at your own two hands, smudged with dirt and blood. Your heart thumps a wicked, heavy tempo in your chest. The pain weighing your body down now seems to belong to someone else entirely, you barely feel anything now. _If I don’t use it now, then when?_

You thrust your hands out, forcing the powers sleeping deep within you to the surface. In response, tendrils of silver erupt from the ground, cracking through cobblestone tiles. They seem to move to an invisible breeze, swaying like snakes, or arms with fingers. The silver threads of mercury wrap around the zombie, holding it captive and yanking it to the ground.

Your face turns white with the exertion of holding it in place, even as your heart lightens and sings in triumph.

“Asta!” You cry, an urgency to your voice, your nose crinkled in concentration. “Use your sword! Hurry!”

Wearily, his clothes clinging to his skin, his cheek and ribs weeping blood, Asta glances at you, his feet already moving, but his movements are slow and sluggish compared to the vigor in which he’d possessed earlier. You can tell that he won’t make it in time.

Already, you can feel your fragile grasp over your magic slipping. Blackness crawls at the edge of your vision like a thousand ants, and just as the first of the silvery threads start breaking apart, a burst of fiery light sends heat flaring up and searing your face and hands, turning the corpse and your mercury magic to ash in the blink of an eye.

You think you scream.

* * *

_“You are truly your father’s child.”_

You barely hear Uncle Fuegoleon’s words whispering through your mind anymore, though you can still remember the pride that had bloomed in your chest and curved your lips up into a tremulous smile, the first smile you’ve gifted anyone since the capital had erupted into flames. Blood pounds in your ears, blurring your vision and your thoughts until all you can see is Uncle Fuegoleon’s broken, mangled body lying at your feet.

His eyes are glassy, his body almost devoid of life.

“We have to stop the bleeding!”

You turn to see your aunt, frantically tearing apart strips of her tunic to create a makeshift tourniquet; already blood is gushing up, red poppies dying white fabric red. It snaps you out of your haze, and you rush to help, stripping off your furs and balling them up under his lax head. Fuegoleon’s blood soaks your dress, stains your skin as you press trembling hands to the bloody stump where his arm used to be.

So, so, so much blood.

You could take a thousand baths and still feel it on you.

_“Yap your head off in the next world, Fuegoleon Vermillion!”_

“How dare you!”

The words burst out of you, your eyes flashing dangerously. You bite out the words with more ferocity than anyone thinks you possess. You let your anger take the reins, power buzzing through you in a pleasant hum, echoing your frantic heartbeat.

“Take that back! Take it back right this instance!”

The magic responds to you as you call out to it. It’s getting easier to control your mercury, and it’s with a toss of your head and an expression of childish defiance that has silver spikes of mercury erupting from the ground and shooting in his direction.

* * *

“Asta,” You whisper, as quietly as you can.

You don’t want to draw attention to yourself, and it helps that the white-robed figures are currently squabbling over you and the boy you’re clinging to like a teddy bear. They’re planning to kill you, but Asta’s fate seems to be up in the air, especially considering how one of them is particularly keen on dissecting him. You suppress a shiver. Your fingers tangle themselves tighter in his black robes.

Worry frays the edges of your voice. “ _Asta._ We got taken away.”

Or, more accurately: he’d been taken away, and you’d used your thin threads of mercury to anchor yourself to his prone form. You’d caught a glimpse of your father as he’d strode onto the scene with your uncle and aunt, and as focused as he’d been on stopping the invaders, you didn’t think that he’d see you.

But he had, and your shock had been drowned out by the look of horror flickering through and cracking his usually stoic expression, as if his whole world was crumbling apart before his very eyes. The very look had turned your blood to ice, had nearly had you dissolving into tears right there and then, but you’d sniffed back the tears that had threatened to fall, knowing that tears would do no one any good.

“It’s okay.” Asta forces confidence into his voice and tugs your shivering frame closer. His face is covered with soot and he smells of sweat and fire and burnt flesh. Still, when he smiles at you, you feel the tangled wad of emotions in you begin to unravel, just the tiniest bit. “I’ll beat them all, and then we’ll go home! Okay, **( Your Name )**?”

“I’ll protect you too,” You say in a small voice. “We’ll protect each other. Promise.”

You can still remember how jagged spikes of mercury had shot up and out at the man in the ragged robes, how they’d managed to catch him on the arm and the cheek; and from the way he’s currently looking at you, with disdain and hatred for the wounds he’s sustained, you can’t help but think that the memory is still clear as day in his mind too.

* * *

Asta had pushed you behind him protectively once again, intent on shielding you with his own body if the need should arise, and though you’re unable to see much of what’s going on, you can hear a familiar voice, and so, you peep out cautiously from behind his leg. You light up at the familiar face.

You’ve seen the Wizard King once or twice on occasion; a particularly vivid memory strikes you then, of him sneaking packets of sweets and cookies to you, smiling at you as though the two of you had shared a particularly amusing secret.

“Actually, about the tablet . . .” You speak up then, and although your voice is barely above a whisper, both of them turn to stare at you inquisitively. You flex your fingers, acutely aware of the crimson poison drying and turning your fingers into a dried, gummy mess. “Uncle Fuegoleon’s necklace is missing.”

Amidst the chaos and the nausea and the pain, you’d forced yourself to stare at the blue of his shirt, the red silk of his cloak, and, stupidly, your mind had registered how bare his neck had looked without the necklace that usually hung there.

The Wizard King stares at you, and it looks as if he’s actually paying attention instead of dismissing you as some adults would, and the gesture bolsters you to continue. As you say the words, a theory already begins to form in your mind. “Maybe they wanted his necklace to put inside.” You point out the intricate carvings, and the indents arranged strategically, most of them empty. “They probably have to look for more to fill them all up, but maybe that’s why they attacked. To get Uncle Fuegoleon. They must have _really_ wanted that necklace.”

“The necklace,” The Wizard King repeats slowly, and you can tell that his thoughts are mirroring your own. “Interesting. You’re very smart, **( Your Name )**.”

“Thank you,” You say, feeling a few inches taller. You give him a shy smile, your face flushing with pleasure.

It’s all you manage to say before an image flickers to life in front of you, and a harried looking man launches into an irritated tirade. You’ve seen him hot on the heels of the Wizard King, and you suppose that they work together.

“It’s not good for you to wander off alone, you know,” You tell the Wizard King solemnly, as if you hadn’t been doing exactly that just hours before. “People will worry.”

“Ah, I suppose so. But I could say the same for you, **( Your Name )**.”

* * *

“Where have you been, **( Your Name )**?” Your father demands as soon as the Wizard King sets you down upon your feet.

His eyes narrow into thin, dangerous slits, and although he tries to hold it in place, his displeasure and worry are a liquid storm, lashing about him. Everyone gives him a wide berth, but you toddle closer to him, your breath soughing from your lungs. You suddenly can’t speak; the python is back, wrapped tight around your throat, and no words come out. He bends to give you a once-over, and his hands are scrubbing away at the dirt on your smudged cheeks, anger giving way to worry as he sees your blood-splattered dress, and the redness of the blood against your shockingly silver-white hair.

“You ran off,” Father says, and _no_ , you’re not imagining how his voice breaks. Tears prick at your eyelids. “ _You ran off, without informing anyone, and I was unable to find you. And now you come back, in such a sorry state._ _Look at you._ Do you have any idea how –”

_How worried I was?_

_Tears are unbecoming,_ you think, but even so, your bottom lip wobbles and the tears come in a flash-flood. And it’s with a loud wail that you give up all pretense of acting as though you’re fine; _exhaustion_ and _relief_ and _fear_ all roll over you at once, and you bury your face into the white silk of your father’s shirt and just _sob_ into his chest.

You bawl out, dissolving into tears like you’ve wanted to do all day. “Daddy! You’re here! I – I was so scared!”

The sobs come one, then the next, with barely a pause to breathe as your frame is racked with the release of so many built-up emotions.

You cling to him with all the strength that you can muster, and nothing in the world could have persuaded you to ever let him go.


	3. Chapter 3

The experience of the past few days settles uncomfortably in you like an over-rich meal. Memories wash through you as water passes over rough pebbles, and each morning, you struggle to surface from sleep. Frightening dreams buffet you about all night, and you awake still tired and fractious. As you open your eyes to the day, the strange and jumbled images of your dreams dissolve, and you see with relief that your nanny has already drawn the curtains at the window and the sun streams in. A pair of golden orioles perch in the branches of the tree outside; a red dragonfly hovers against a blue sky.

You push back the heavy covers and stretch. Your nanny is already laying out your clothes, a formal dress of white and purple, pinned at the shoulders with the golden pins of House Silva. The skirts flow to the floor, where it pools in a small train. You’re reminded that it’s Tuesday, and you’ll spend the day at school before joining your father at the ceremony to honor the royal knights. You’re not a royal knight, not yet, but the Wizard King had been impressed by your actions during the invasion of the capital, and had seen fit to reward you.

After a day spent cooped up in the classroom, in which it almost feels as though every single ounce of patience and compassion has been drained from your soul, your father meets you at the school gates. Smiling, you trip into him, wrapping your arms tight around his frame, now crouched close to the ground so that you can hug him with ease. The gesture surprises you somewhat, since he’s never been much of a hugger, but he’s been making more of an effort to soothe you with physical touch ever since you’d tumbled into his arms, sweaty and bloodied and bawling your eyes out when the capital had been invaded. Your father had also scolded you for using the edge of his fur-lined cloak to wipe your running nose on, but even that had lacked his usual bite.

Your grip around your father’s pinky tightens as you walk into the grand hall of stained glass windows, feeling as though you’re trapped in a jewel box as the evening sunlight streams through. Stares weigh heavy on your skin as you enter, making your cheeks warm. Still, you try not to notice, keeping your head held high and letting your eyes glide over everyone present until they catch sight of two familiar figures – Asta and your Aunt Noelle, standing close to members of the Golden Dawn. You raise a hand in greeting, chubby cheeks lifting up into a bright smile, but then your father ushers you into a plush chair, and in the flurry of movement when the Wizard King sweeps into the hall, you lose sight of them.

You watch the ensuing ceremony in interest, swinging your short legs about as the Wizard King gives out stars and promotes Magic Knights. Asta and Noelle are both promoted, much to your pleasure, as you. The Silver Eagles earn a total of fifteen stars, and just as you think the ceremony is over –

“And, finally, **( Your Name )** of House Silva.”

You turn to your father. He’s already pulling you to your feet, tugging at your dress and smoothing out the wrinkles that have come from sitting around all morning. “Daddy?”

“Walk over to the Wizard King, then return here.” Father drags his eyes over you one last time, from the top of your head to your sandaled feet, before giving you a firm nod of approval and a gentle shove to the front of the room, where the Wizard King waits.

You wish your father would come with you, and it’s on uncertain legs that you toddle to the front of the room, heart thundering against your rib cage. The Wizard King smiles warmly at you, trying to put you at ease, and you return his smile, your heartbeat slowing and your breath coming easier.

“ **( Your Name )** , for your help in repelling the invaders and for helping to deduce the motives behind the invasion, I hereby award the Silver Eagles ten stars.”

Hushed whispers travel around the room; from what you can hear, it’s rare for the Wizard King to award anyone ten stars, and he’s just handed them out to you on a silver platter. Your cheeks dimple as your smile widens, and you tug on the edge of his fur-lined robe to get his attention.

“Can you give Asta some of my stars?” You ask him plainly, but your voice still carries up and over everyone gathered. The room falls silent once again. “He helped me be brave. Thanks to him, I was able to use a little bit of magic.”

Your smile turns happy as you remember the silver threads of mercury, the one bright spot in that nightmare of a day. Your brothers had inherited water and plant-based magic, and you’re the only one who’s inherited your father’s mercury magic, and it only serves to thicken the unexpected bond developing between the two of you. You’re not afraid to speak your mind, looking directly into his face and querying his commands; you don’t swallow your words in fear before him like your aunt or uncle.

“You look like _her_ ,” Your father told you once, staring at you so hard that you feel uncomfortable. You know that he refers to your grandmother, whose name had been Acier, but you’re unable to tell if the resemblance to her is a positive or negative attribute, for nobody ever speaks of her.

“You’re going to help him?” The Wizard King asks, his eyebrows darting up, his blue eyes alight in curiosity. “Even though he’s a commoner, and you’re royalty?”

“It’s _because_ I’m royalty that I should be helping.” You insist, pigtails swinging as you defiantly toss your head. Your round eyes are aflame. You’re still growing, your eyes childishly wide and shapeless, but the colour of your hair and the shape of your eyes mark you as a Silva. You’ve also inherited Acier’s natural elegance and grace that thrusts straight through the center of all you meet.

You’re rewarded with a smile from the Wizard King. He seems so pleased that you feel slightly unnerved, but you can tell that his smile isn’t mocking. It feels as though you’ve passed a test somehow, one you don’t remember taking, and you can see clearly the approval written in his eyes. “You’ll make a fine Magic Knight someday, **( Your Name )**. I’ll give Asta five more stars on your behalf, okay?”

“Okay!”

You remember your manners and sweep him a curtsey before sprinting back to your father, purple and white skirts flaring out behind you. Your legs are still chubby and short, in that transition period from baby to child, and you screech to a halt with a big, beaming smile. Your uncle looks especially angry, but you father slides him a glare, cool as ice, and he turns his head to the side, his lips pursed into a thin, hard line.

Father turns to you and bends further at the waist so that his eyes are level with yours. His voice is gently chiding as he tugs on your hair and straightens your pigtails. “ **( Your Name )** , what did I say about running?”

You fling your arms around his neck, still riding on the wave of happiness. Your laugh rings out high and bright in his ears, and, unbeknownst to you, your father closes his eyes, savoring the sound. “Daddy, Daddy, I got you ten stars! Did you see?”

“I saw.”

The ceremony is over, but no one seems inclined to leave. It’s only when you look around the room that you notice small cocktail tables have been set up, decorated with crystal bowls of flaming flowers. A long table off to the side boasts numerous dishes, and you eye the chocolate covered cakes with barely suppressed longing.

He starts to glide to the door, tugging you along with him. “ **( Your Name )** , we should be heading home. Your mother and brothers are waiting for us.”

“But Daddy – All my friends are here.” You dim like a cloud blowing across the sun. You cast a longing glance at Asta and your aunt, clustered around a table. You’ve brought along presents for them, handmade cookies wrapped up in pretty plastic in your little bag. It’s devoid of a grimoire, but you still carry it around with you, waiting for the day when you can slide your grimoire into it like your father. “Can’t we stay longer? Please? Please?”

Your father pushes out a resigned sigh. “. . . Stay with your Aunt Noelle, _and don’t wander off_. I will pick you up in an hour.”

You brighten again, moving over to hug his leg, the highest part of him that you can reach when he isn’t bending. “Thank you Daddy, thank you!”


	4. Chapter 4

Deep into the wee hours of the morning, you’re jolted out of the oblivion of rest by the sound of the door to your room opening. A slim crack of light spills onto the carpeted floor, before the door is closed once again. In the darkness you hear the occasional voice, a running of feet, the creaking of pipes.

The springs of your mattress creak as a weight settles upon your bed. The fresh scent of the night and the rain comes in with your father, mingling with the sharp bite of his cologne and the faint lavender soap that clings to his clothes. A hand cards through your hair, untangling your sleep from each strand.

“Daddy?”

With your waking sigh and trembling voice, your father’s head snaps around, his features illuminated weakly by the moonlight streaming in through the gauzy curtains.

“ **( Your Name )**. Did I wake you?”

“Nuh-uh.” You barely manage a few syllables around your irrepressible need for sleep. You wriggle onto his lap and snuggle in with your ear to his chest, right over his heartbeat. Your father shifts, a hand coming around to wrap around you, securing you in place on his lap. “Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“Did you have a bad dream?” You ask around a yawn, safe and secure in the arms of your father. Nightmares are a subject you’re familiar with; the attack on the capital had left you reeling. Often, in the black light of early morning, you would down the hallway to your parents’ room, tearfully asking if you could sleep with them. “Is that why you’re here?”

“No. I wanted to see you, **( Your Name )**.”

You hold him tighter, as though you can pass on strength and reassurance to him by sheer force of will alone. “Umm-hmm.”

“Falling asleep?”

“No, Daddy.” You assure him, though your head is relaxing and your breathing is evening out. “Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“Did Grandmother sing?”

A pause. A deep breath in, and a breath huffed out. “She did.”

“Did she sing a lullaby to you?” A sleepy smile is thrown his way as you play with the edges of his braid. You can count the number of times that this has happened, you settling yourself on father’s lap for a nap, while the scratching of his pen as he worked on his reports would lull you into dreams by the fireplace.

“She did.”

“Umm-hmm.”

You think he starts singing to you, softly, but you’re beyond hearing. Your eyes have drifted shut, and softly snoring as your hand curls into his hair, the front of his robes.

When you wake, your father is gone, and your mother tells you tearfully that he’s gone for a long mission and won’t be back for a while.


	5. Chapter 5

You pass through a long sleep of strange dreams and distorted images.

 _Singing._ A woman singing. _Happy. Happy. Safe._ The feeling of basking in warmth. Numerous voices chattering to you, all at once. _Interest. Curiosity._ A man, speaking to you in soft, hushed tones. _He’s glad you were born. He can’t wait to see you and talk to you._ Something sharp piercing through you. Pain. _Pain. Pain. Fear._

A monstrous wave rises up, like a great curling tongue, rolling down to claim you. In the belly of the wave, the waters are so dark that you don’t know if you’re swimming to the surface or if you’re struggling ever downwards, sealing your own doom. You kick hard, hoping that your efforts will win you light and air. The cold, watery prison clings to you, trying to hold you back. With all the strength that you can muster, you push yourself up, up, up.

You awaken with a gasp, eyes flying open to reveal the familiar ceiling of your room. In the black light, you realize that the sky outside is ablaze with in a deep pink, and alight with blasts of fiery light. In the garden the usual boom of bullfrogs echoes through the night, crickets continue their incessant whirr and the smell of night flowers comes to you. Everything is as before, yet you sense a line has been crossed and nothing will be the same again.

The sounds of the servants drift up to you, whipped under the crack of your heavy wooden door – shouts and screams, pleas of mercy. Your mouth is dry no matter how often you swallow, and you can’t keep from shaking as you pull on your coat of white fur over your chemise. You’re acutely aware of the commotion outside, how the house is shaking and rattling the window panes in their casings.

 _Something must have happened,_ your panicked mind thinks, your hands and feet moving in a flurry of desperation. Quietly, you mince out of your bedroom like a ghost, a ghost not wanting to be seen. You have to wake your mother, your brothers, and find your aunt and uncle.

The icy stone floor feels like needles on the soles of your feet as you tiptoe across it, but your steps are quieter without shoes. Barefoot, in the dim light from torches lining the walls, you make your way down the hall, and up the murky side stairs that even the servants take care to avoid.

You open the door to your brother’s room with a snick.

“It’s me.” You whisper through the crack.

Relief colours his tone. “ **( Your Name )**?”

You move closer into the room, shutting the door behind you. Your brother, in the weak light, blanches when he sees you.

_“What?”_

“Your ears – you got uglier. And your face has markings on it.” A hesitant finger is pointed your way.

Your hands fly up – it’s not some bad joke. Your ears are long and pointed, and the sting when you pull on them informs you that this isn’t a dream. Everything is painfully real.

Shaking aside the sudden spike of fear, you grip his shoulders tightly. “Listen. There’s something going on – you have to wake Mom and everyone else. Get out of the mansion and find help. Use the tunnels.”

Your brothers had been determined to explore all the passages hidden within the castle, drawing up dozens of scrawled maps that only he could read. You often tagged along with him, forced to by your parents, and as such, you’ve discovered the tunnels as well. You haven’t found all of them yet, but you’re already well acquainted with the ones you _have_ found. Including one that leads from the east wing of the palace to Uncle Solid’s room.

“What are you going to do?”

“Gotta find Auntie Nebra and Uncle Solid. They’re Magic Knights, and they can help.”

“ **( Your Name )** , be careful.”

“You too.”

“If you don’t come back, I get your room.”

“Shut up!”

You give him a last, playful shove, and you mince into the hallway once again. The entrance to the tunnels should be around here; you can only hope that you haven’t missed it. The darkness doesn’t help matters any, and you didn’t dare to bring a candle. Voices are moving, coming closer to you, but they head down another passageway, away from you, and you let out a sigh of relief.

When you come to what you’re almost positive is the right hallway, you reach out and trail your fingers along the wall, stopping when you run over a stone jutting out slightly from the rest.

You twist it once clockwise, twice counterclockwise, before giving the wall a firm shove with your shoulder. It takes a few more shoves before a hidden door hinges open, but that’s a good thing. It means no one has used this tunnel in some time. With a last, anxious look back to ensure that you haven’t been followed, you step inside and push the door shut behind you,

The tunnel is narrow and dark but you press forward, feeling along the dust-draped walls to find your way. You should have brought a candle. And shoes. The stones that make up the walls and ground are coated in dirt and dust that cling to your hands and the soles of your feet.

You run and run, as the path twists on. Every so often, muffled voices leak through the stones, and though you know their owners can’t possibly know of your presence, you hold your breath as you pass.

Finally, your fingers touch wood, and you stop. You sweep the dust and dirt aside as best you can, feeling for the cold metal handle. A scream echoes, close by; ice trickles down your spine and your heart thunders. _It sounds like Auntie Nebra._ The handle appears under your hand, and you turn it only to find it rusted shut. You have to throw all your body weight against it to turn it a quarter of the way. You turn it again, and again, until your arms burn, and the door inches wide enough for you to tumble through.

It’s on hands and knees that you find yourself on the familiar tiled floor of Uncle Solid’s bedroom. It takes a moment for the situation to sink in, but when you do, the seriousness of it all strikes you like a glancing blow to the head. A member of the Golden Dawn, with the same pointed ears as yours, and a swirl of markings patterning her forehead. Auntie Nebra, sprawled out on the floor in a bloodied heap. Uncle Solid, a gash on his cheek weeping burgundy poison.

“Uncle Solid! Auntie Nebra!”

Your skin feels hot, as though it’s responding to the agitation that you feel. You’d been helpless to save Uncle Fuegoleon; you’re not abandoning your aunt and uncle now. There’s a thrum beneath your skin, working all the way down to your toes. Power dances beneath your fingertips, begging you to call on it, _and you do._

Mercury rushes up to greet your outstretched fingers, curling protectively around your aunt and uncle. The barrage of needles rains harmlessly down over your shield, and in spite of yourself, in spite of the gravity of the whole situation, you find yourself huffing out a laugh. You wonder if this newfound power is a side-effect of your pointed ears and the markings on your face, but you find yourself grateful for it.

You’ll gladly use any weapon at your disposal if it means that you can protect your family.

“Back off!” You scream at the Golden Dawn girl, and then you call her a name that your father would never approve of.

“ **( Your Name )**?” Your uncle’s voice sounds uncharacteristically small and fractured, like a dam about to break. None of his self-possessed confidence is left, leaving a man stripped away of his pride. “When did you – How are you?”

You wave his questions off with an impatient motion of your hand, gesturing to the open door. “Take Auntie Nebra and run! Hurry!”

You keep a wary eye on the member of the Golden Dawn, but to your surprise, she makes no move to attack; the needles of gold hover in place before clattering abruptly to the ground. Instead, you meet her very clear blue eyes, and to your surprise, a sob of pain emerges from her, followed right on the heels of a piercing wail.

Anguish colours her tone a deep indigo. “You came back to us, little one. After so long . . .”

She holds out a hand, moving closer, but you back away, until the small of your back hits the wooden bedframe.

“I am Kivn. Please, come with me. Your father is waiting. He’ll be most eager to see you.”

“Daddy?” The joy that you feel isn’t solely yours alone; an image of a little girl with tawny hair and bright green eyes burns behind your closed eyelids, and her chubby face is lifted up into a sweet, sweet smile. She has the same delicate, elfin features that you do, and her ears are sharply pointed. “You know my Daddy?”

She holds out her hand, beckoning you close as tears still stream unceasingly down her face. “I do. I’ll bring you to him.”

“ **( Your Name )**!” Uncle Solid grabs hold of you before you can even think of moving over to her; you come back to yourself, too ashamed to admit that you _would_ have followed her in a moment of childish foolishness if it meant that you could have seen your father again. “Idiot! Snap out of it! She isn’t gonna take you to Brother Nozel!”

“But – But she said she’d take me to Daddy.” You say, with all the directness of a child forced to grow up too fast. “She said she knew Daddy.”

Kivn’s expression closes and darkens. With a wave of her hand, the needles float up into the air once again. “Not that filthy royal. Your _real_ father is waiting for you. Now, human, let her go.”

Tucked close by your uncle’s side, you clench your fists, preparing to harden your mercury. You think that she won’t hurt you, but it’s clear that she bears a grudge against your aunt and your uncle, and you won’t let her hurt them.

Just as the first barrage of needles flies towards you, the walls of your uncle’s bedroom explode in a shower of plaster and stone, flying through the air, spinning the earth of her axis. Your ears ringing and deafened, you stumble, but a firm hand catches the back of your coat, keeping you upright. A protective barrier of mercury wraps around you, keeping you safe, and you turn to its owner with an exquisite smile.

_“Daddy!”_

* * *

Pain.

Searing pain.

A golden needle pokes into your chest and you grasp at it with trembling fingers, sending a ripple of agony through you. The metal slides back through your chest, ripping and slicing, and you scream as it comes free. A soft crimson rain splatters the tiles.

“ **( Your Name )**.” Your name comes from a distance, laced with the most curious mixture of anger and worry. Pain blazes through your center, agony making it difficult to move, even as your father pulls you onto his lap, as gently as he’s able to. His eyes are glossy with tears, magic flowing over you in a pleasant hum, and you feel torn skin starting to stitch itself back up, the bleeding ceasing for the barest of moments. “ **( Your Name )** , why did you do that?”

 _I didn’t want you to get hurt,_ you want to say. _I wanted to protect you._

You rest your head against his chest, and your eyes flutter shut.

* * *

You dream of a woman with long blonde hair, who smiles at you, hugs you, and kisses away the pain. And a man in robes of white and blue, a braid trailing down his back, who beckons you while holding out a hand.

When you open my eyes, the world is silent. Voices have disappeared, the sounds of metal and screams and cries of pain have all but vanished from existence. The sky, still, is ablaze in red, and you lie on your back, covered from head to toe in a wash of bubbles.

You shift, wincing as your chest throbbs, a dull ache that goes all the way through your body. You feel sluggish and heavy, your thoughts a hazy, tangled mess. Something hovers at the back of your mind, dark and terrible, and your thoughts keep shying away from it. _Where am I? I don’t remember coming here._

Everything suddenly went white. You can’t see a thing. You’re completely blind, even though your eyes are wide open. It’s the most unnatural, disturbing feeling – almost as if someone else is seeing through your eyes. As if there’s another person inside your head.

“Daddy?” You cry out, once the feeling passes.

“He had to go.” Uncle Solid says, moving out of the shadows. “He went to stop the elves with Noelle.”

“Mommy?” You ask.

“I’ll go get her.” Uncle Solid says, oddly contrite. “Brother Nozel said, and I quote, _“Stay here”._ You’re still injured, brat. You – You should rest more.”

Uncle Solid doesn’t stay long enough to see you shake your head.

A bad feeling hovers over your gut, icy fingers of dread tightening your bowels. You feel a tugging at your soul, your body pulling you somewhere. Every inch of your skin aches, and your feet are already moving, following the need.

You have to go.

And you take flight, with wings of mercury glittering upon your back.


	6. Chapter 6

As you continue flying, your fingertips tingle and your legs feel like you’ve walked waist-deep into the ocean. A current of energy, and something else, a wave of sickness and malice, rolls around you, threatening to overwhelm you and lift you out of your body. It requites huge amounts of concentration to stay focused.

You fly for what seems an eternity, passing corridors full of elves and humans alike. You dimly remember their faces, dimly remember that some of them are important to you, but your body is pulling you up, to the rooms beyond, every inch of your skin aching, and you know that you can’t stay to help.

It feels as though you’re swimming in the bathtub. Like the world isn’t quite big enough.

“Ah . . .”

Your feet touch solid stone, and you crumple to the ground in a heap, your gaze firmly focused on the ornately carved doors of stone. Your wings turn to liquid and pool on the ground beside you. There is warm liquid trickling down your nose, and you touch it. Your magic might come more easily to you now, but you’re still young, and your body can’t keep up with the strain of it all. You swipe at the blood with impatient fingers, startled and comforted by how cold your fingers are. You feel like you’re burning from the inside out.

“You . . . You . . . Are . . .” A voice rasps out, sounding rusty from disuse, and you jump. You didn’t hear anyone come in.

Someone touches your arm; you turn to meet glassy golden eyes, a sharply-angled face framed with straight blond hair, surrounded by a brilliant, glowing gold. His slender body is garbed in loose white robes, a sword grasped in his hand. His face looks as if it’s been carved from marble, and he resembles the narrow-hipped plaster cast of the statues that line the gardens of your house.

_He’s – He’s the leader of the Midnight Sun, isn’t he? Licht?_

A hand reaches out, touches your cheek gingerly, using his sleeve to clean away the remnants of blood on your face. Hesitantly, you turn into his touch, but you don’t take your eyes from his. For a second, his face breaks with the start of a cry. His sadness fills you, and for a moment, the soul sleeping inside you briefly stirs, and it’s as though all three of you are connected.

“. . . You . . . Came . . .”

Images flood your mind. You remember a warm hand on the curve of a stomach, seeping warmth down to where you sleep. You remember swimming in fluid, clutching onto a hand, the fingers tiny and stubby, but intertwined with yours all the same. You remember twisting about in flips, hearing your mother and father laugh, and being pleased when their attention was directed at you.

Your lips begin to tremble, a whimper sliding out of you. The pain in your chest feels like it’s going to kill you. You put your hand on his and squeeze it tight. You’re filled with love for him, love that’s beyond you.

“Are you – Are you my –”

Before you can finish your sentence, his face shutters, and he moves to stand in front of you protectively. The wave of pure black malice you’d felt earlier seems to be coming closer and closer, clinging to your entire being like cotton wool. You’re shaking, every bone in your body feeling hot and out of place.

“. . . Stay.”

He sounds so much like your father, your _real_ father, that you have to bite down on your bottom lip to stifle a cry. You know he’s here. You can feel his mana. He’s fighting too, somewhere close, and you have to wonder if he knows that you’re here.

“Something’s coming.” A statement, not a fact, said with all the directness of a child forced to grow up way too fast. You push yourself to your feet.

He turns back to you briefly, tries to smile. “. . . Protect you.”

The cold bout of laughter sounds out someone – _no,_ something’s – approach. You see cracked grey skin, thick branching horns, and eyes glowing a bright, inhuman red. Its black-clad limbs are unnaturally long and thin, sharp-tipped fingers hold onto a five-leafed grimoire. There’s a smell in the room of lilies in the spring, but it’s a cloying smell that masks something rotten.

 **“Neh heh heh.”** Fear creeps up your legs and down your arms and you wrap your coat tightly around your body. _Brave, brave._ You have to be brave. But in the face of a living, breathing, demon, you can’t help but tremble. **“There it is. The door to the outside world.”**

“I . . . Won’t . . . Let . . . You . . . Go . . .”

 **“You may not be fully awake yet, but you still can’t forgive me, hm?”** It smiles, all sharp teeth and flashing eyes. **“Neh heh heh. That’s no surprise. This time, I’ll kill you properly!”**

 _I won’t let that happen,_ you think, and the other soul inside of you hums in agreement. This, at least, is one thing you both can agree on.

**“Lightning Lance.”**

Licht blocks the attack effortlessly with his sword and redirects it back at the devil. For a moment, hope blinds you as you imagine a swift end to the battle; but you should be well-aware by now that things never work out as you want them to.

**“Earth shield.”**

It’s on a deranged cackle that the earth bends to its whims, and the lightning collides against the erected shield, shattering it into quarters.

**“Storm of Blades.”**

Your eyes widen, flying up to the ceiling as a shower of swords descends upon you, deadly sharp even in the half-light. Licht glances back at you, alarmed, already moving to push you out of harm’s way, but you’re faster than he is, and the mercury responds to your call, forming a protective umbrella over your head and his.

The devil turns his attention to you then, and spiders shiver down your spine as the full-force of his gaze falls upon you.

 **“My, my,”** He says, in savage delight. You have to resist the urge to scrub your skin clean. **“You’re that elf’s – I see, I see. I’ll take pleasure in killing you.”**

Licht’s face hardens, his face breaking a little before he straightens it. Is he thinking about you dying? It’s too horrible to comprehend.

**“Split Open.”**

The ground cracks beneath your feet, splintering open, turning the world on its side and making finding solid ground impossible. Instantly, your mercury melts away and wraps itself around your shoulders, and you’re lifted high into the air, looking for all the world like an angel with silver wings and a dress of white, patterned with red poppies of dried blood.

**“Bind.”**

Black finger-like tendrils erupt from the cracked earth, wrapping around the blade that Licht wields. He struggles to pull himself free, but the threads only increase, until the whole of his sword is coated with a sticky layer of black.

The devil grins widely. **“That sword can absorb magic, but I’d imagine its affinity with physical matter is poor.”**

As you watched, wide-eyed and transfixed with horror, a twitch of its claws has a spear forming, created from mere nothingness. It’s almost as if it can speak its wishes into reality, and you realize, your stomach turning with anxiety, that this is most likely its magic. Another twitch of its fingers directs the sword at Licht, still held in place by the sticky mass of black.

**“You only have one sword. You are no threat to me.”**

_One sword –_

**“Farewell . . . Elf Chieftain.”**

_You’re taking up space in my body,_ you think savagely, and your barbed thoughts are directed at your slumbering visitor, who doesn’t so much as stir at the sound of your voice. _You better help me out here._

“Lay off him, bitch!” You snap, jumping to Licht’s defense.

Two swears in one day. Your father would be horrified.

The need to protect Licht coils up and vibrates through you, and you push those feelings into your magic. More mercury swells up, a great sea of silver rising to swallow up the blackened spear whole. You grit your teeth, thinking back to the day of flames and blood in the capital. It all seems so far away now, but from the depths of your hazy memory, you recall the swords Asta had wielded, and the liquid metal responds, shaping itself into a glinting silver sword.

It’s nothing close to Asta’s blade, but still, it’s efficient at parting the mass of black threads tethering Licht to the ground. With barely a pause to breath, you hack and hack until he’s free.

“I won’t let anyone here die!” Your hair whips free from the hasty ponytail that you’ve scraped it into. You’re an avenging angel ready for battle, and you scream out your declaration of war. “Now get your butt ready! It’s time to get serious!”


	7. Chapter 7

“We won!”

With a triumphant yell, Asta voices everyone’s thoughts as the devil crumbles away into dust, into nothingness. Even half-dead, with an arm slung around Yuno’s shoulders – _or should you call Yuno your brother now? You don’t quite know, all the lines have blurred, and things have changed in a way you never thought possible_ – his toothy smile still blooms as he laughs and cheers, still riding the high of adrenaline that the lengthy battle has brought on.

You muscles release. Your body exhales.

And you feel yourself falling, your body giving out, pain shredding your skin, but you’re too exhausted to even scream.

Several voices call your name.

It’s Licht who catches you, pulling you into his arms and holding you tight, your eyes sliding into focus and back out again as you squirm and bury yourself deeper into his arms. You fight the urge to sleep and to never wake up.

Licht screams out a warning, worry lacing his words and crinkling his brow. “The shadow palace is beginning to collapse!”

“Uh oh,” You mutter, huffing out a ragged breath. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“No!” Lemiel’s voice rings out from close by, sounding frustrated. “I want to keep sending my magic to everyone!”

You breathe out your words in a chilly bubble. “Can you take some of my magic?”

Lemiel shakes his head. Cracks are appearing on his cheeks, already turning into grey stone. “My body’s at it’s limit. It wouldn’t work.”

Your heart falls through your gut, and you make a whining sound. _Daddy._ Your fingers tighten into a ball as you feel a familiar lurch in your stomach, your throat closing up.

“Are they going to die?”

Licht swallows. You take in a sharp breath.

He’s still holding onto you when a portal opens up and sends familiar faces crashing down. You see your Aunt Noelle, whizzing by in a blurr of silver and blue. Uncle Fuegoleon rides atop the back of a flaming dragon, and you stare at them both in wide-eyed wonder, shaking off the tiredness clinging to you like a shawl.

If they’re all here, that can only mean –

_“DADDY!”_

At the sound of your cry, at your voice breaking and refusing to put itself back together, it’s both Licht and your father who turn around to look at you.

Surprise, then anger, covers your father’s sharply-angled face, but he’s too far away to take you into his arms, and so, he silently seethes.

_If looks could kill –_

“ **( Your Name )** ,” He says, after a long pause, which includes his blue eyes narrowing into thin, angry slits. Somehow, over the commotion and all the chatter, his voice still manages to carry over to you, cold and clipped. “I recall asking you to stay with your uncle.”

“That’s my Daddy,” You explain to Licht, smiling, recognizing that his anger comes from a place of concern. “He’s a Magic Knight. I’m gonna be like him when I grow up!”

Licht’s answering smile is sad. “I see.”

You return to the Clover Kingdom to find it burning, the destruction revealed in all its grotesque detail. The sky is a deep pink, and a charred odor engulfs you. Buildings of stone are gutted and crumbling to pieces; a distance away, fires still burn, black smoke billowing up like the flag of a pirate ship, and your panic grows. You don’t think your magic can help in any way.

“I can stop them.” It’s Patri who offers up a solution. “William is asleep deep inside me, but we can use his magic to gather all the magic and life force in the kingdom.” He smiles, and it’s a bittersweet smile of a goodbye and melancholy all at once, directed at the only friends he’s ever known. “I’ll be going on ahead of you all!” 

Asta presses the blunt end of his sword to Patri’s chest; he flickers from solid to milky transparent, before the captain of the Golden Dawn appears once again. Pocked, ridged scars cover most of his face, making his flesh look like melted wax. His sadness seems to take tangible form in the space surrounding him, Patri’s name breathed out in his next exhale.

Eyes brimming with tears, Captain Vangeance holds out his hand, roots and branches sprouting from his hands. A gigantic tree bursts to life, and there’s an explosion of bright yellow light that extends to forever. A flow of emotion and heat, illuminating the entire night sky. Illuminating the entire world.

You can see the parade of souls leaving, the souls of the elves bright and happy, finally at peace. You don’t need anyone to tell you that they’re your family. You know it, feel a kinship immediately that speaks to your own soul.

 _They’re leaving,_ you realise, feeling your lips quiver. _Does that mean that he’s –_

Licht sets you down gently on the floating layer of mercury. Sadness etches his angular face, twisting it into beautiful contortions. He’s breaking apart, his skin turning golden, and little cracks of light are escaping right through his clothes.

Your eyes are wide and burning with tears.

“No.” You say, sounding like a begging child.

Licht turns to his friends, and says on a smile, “Live in this world for the rest of us, too.” 

There’s a glow about you, a light golden hue. An intense heat burns across your back. A voice rings out in your head, the voice of a child telling you _thank you._ The same little girl with tawny coloured hair and bright green eyes, smiling a cheerful, gap-toothed smile. 

“I’ll be going on ahead of you, Lemiel.” Licht says, and you’re struck by the finality of it all, that this is the very last time you’ll be seeing him. You’re flooded with memories, and they almost double you over. “I’ve kept Tetia waiting a very long time.”

“Yes.”

“I was happy to see the possibilities of the ideal future we hoped for.” Licht says, and his eyes come to linger upon Yuno, upon Asta, finally coming to rest upon you. “The future is in good hands.”

“Yes.”

“The one who’s in me, and in her . . .” Yuno, your _brother_ , speaks up then. “Was I – Were we –?”

Licht’s eyes seem very far away now, almost as if he’s seeing past you both, into the glimpse of the future that might have been. “I was able to fight alongside my children. Thank you, Four-Leaf youth of the present!” He turns to you, his face breaking with the start of a cry, but he quickly composes himself, seeing the tears coating your eyes in a glossy sheen. “ **( Your Name )**. Your father raised you well. You’ll be a splendid mage someday.”

You stand there, your heart breaking because you don’t want him to leave. They aren’t just the feelings of the elf who had once claimed your body – they’re your own now as well.

“Don’t go.”

You fling yourself into his arms once again. Licht stumbles back, but holds you. He’s squeezing you tight, and you tuck your cheek into the crook of his neck, biting back the cries that threaten to claw their way free from your throat.

“More than anything, she wanted to be your daughter.” You tell him, and your voice breaks, refusing to put itself back together. “She wanted to see you as well.”

Licht huffs out a weak laugh in a voice clogged with unshed tears. You stay there until he dissolves into specks of golden light, until you can no longer feel his lips pressed to the crown of your head. You wait, hoping, praying that he’ll come back, but when your arms remain painfully empty, you drop your head.

And weep.


	8. Chapter 8

Nothing in all the preceding hellish hours had made you break down and cry, but Licht’s death cuts to the very center of you, and now, the tears stubbornly refuse to stop.

Hands pat at you, but you don’t calm. The sobs come one, then the next, with barely a pause to breathe as your frame is wracked with the release of so many built-up emotions. Tears pour down your cheeks, pooling around you, a lake of misery. You cry so hard that your entire body shakes, and your eyes swell shut.

Through the tears, you say something that must sound like _Daddy_ , and then he’s there, holding you and patting your back while you sob. You clutch at your middle to dull the pain. Sink down on your heels, rocking, crying.

Your father doesn’t comfort you with empty platitudes and words about how everything will be okay. It may seem to others a cold thing for him to do, but it’s actually a comfort to you. In this moment, you don’t think that you’ll ever be okay again.

“D-Daddy?” You cry, still swaying with sobs.

“Yes, **( Your Name )**?”

“I – I’m – I’m . . . I’m still . . . You’re still my Daddy, right?”

_I’m still your daughter, right?_

“ **( Your Name )**. Look at me.” His voice takes on a sharpened edge, becomes firm, inarguable. You comply, sniffling, the tears on your face mingling with the snot running down your nose. “Remember this well. No matter where you go, or what you become, you will _always_ be my daughter.”

Wave after wave of sobs racks your body. You throw your arms around his neck and sob, loudly and wetly, into his ear.

* * *

Later, you snot snotty bubbles into the front of his shirt, and a weak smile comes to your face as your father scolds you, appalled by the slimy mess decorating his attire for the world to see.


	9. Chapter 9

Years pass.

You grow, fill out, blossoming beautifully.

The resemblance to your father, and by extension, your grandmother, is now painfully obvious. Whenever you look into the mirror, Acier Silva’s face stares back at you. Your hair hangs down in wild curls, unlike the sleek straightness of the rest of your family, and a braid rings the crown of your silver head.

When you’re fifteen, the grimoire awarding ceremony dawns upon you, and it’s with your stomach knotted into macramé that you make your way up stone steps, dressed in the traditional white and purple colours of your house. Your head feels as though it’s a million miles away; it feels almost silly to be worried, considering how you’ve known all along that you’ve inherited your father’s mercury magic, but butterflies still line the insides of your stomach.

When you enter the stone tower, you’re blown away. The ceilings are tall, and stone floors stretch ahead of you. The room is filled with shelf upon shelf of books, and the entire room smells of parchment paper and ink. The crowd is buzzing with whispers, and you don’t miss how everyone seems to be giving you a wide berth of space, already casting judgement over the elegance in which you carry yourself, from the top of your head down to your sandaled feet.

You try to ignore them, your eyes roving around the room, even though you know that your parents aren’t around. Your father is away on a mission with your aunt and uncle, and your mother is visiting relatives in the country. Families are already streaming into the room, standing off to the sides and anxiously awaiting the moment when their children will receive their grimoires.

“ **( Your Name )**!”

Your head snaps up.

_Asta?_

You just barely manage to pick him out over the crowd, even as he jumps and waves his arms about, almost clipping an indignant Noelle in the eye. Her ensuing shriek is the loudest sound in the room, competing with Asta’s scream as she shoves him away. Yuno stands with them, towering a good head above Asta, and he nods in your direction, the barest hint of a smile tugging up at his lips.

You wave at them, grinning, your heart feeling infinitely lighter.

Your family came after all.

You also have to try very hard not to notice the girls eyeing your brother as though he’s a piece of fresh meat.

A wizened old man speaks up, and a hush falls over the room. “I am the master of this grimoire tower. Many of our Wizard Kings have come from the Royal Capital, and now, many of you will soon join the Magic Knights. I am confident that all of you here today will achieve greatness.”

Anxiety turns your stomach once more.

“And now, for the Awarding of the Grimoires!”

Books are surrounded by a warm golden light, and they fly off the shelves at top speed, into the waiting hands of their new owners.

You see a glimpse of royal blue, of a cover embossed with swirls and curlicues before a book drops into your hands. The book feels warm as you clutch it to your chest protectively, and it still glows with a golden light, long after the other lights have died down.

And then, someone speaks up.

“Isn’t that a four-leaf clover?”

The grimoire slips from your frozen fingers and thuds to the floor.

You turn and flee from the room.

* * *

You’re not ten steps out when a hand grips your shoulder, restraining you. You want to run, run, run, until you’re alone and you can scream.

You turn to find Yuno, a sliver of concern breaking through his stoic expression. The hand that’s stopped you is now light on your shoulder, the palm and fingertips surprisingly rough.

“What?” Your voice shakes, the tempest tearing through you betrayed through your strained voice.

“You forgot this.”

Your grimoire is pressed into your hand. You stare at it despondently, but make no moves to accept it.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” You say, though they don’t feel like your words. Because you aren’t all right. You’re a hurricane barely contained in human skin.

Your hands begin to shake, and you tuck them into the folds of your skirt so that Yuno won’t notice.

As always, he does.

“You’re a bad liar, **( Your Name )**. Out with it.”

“. . . What if I hurt people with my magic?” You think of Licht, your father, falling into despair, his grimoire turning pitch black, stained with the colour of his own anguish. Now, your own anguish colours your tone a deep indigo. “I don’t – That’s not what I want.”

“That won’t happen.” Yuno sounds more confident than you feel, and you don’t believe him.

Your voice snaps like a sail in the wind. “How do you know that? How could you –”

“Because you said you wanted to help people.” Yuno as always, is unfazed. He doesn’t lash out at you as he delivers his next words, brutally calm. It feels as though you’ve been dunked head first into a pool of cold water. “You said so, to the Wizard King. I remember. You still want to help, don’t you?”

Something in you softens, eases up. You didn’t realize how much you needed to hear those words. You swallow, and nod.

“Yes.”


	10. Chapter 10

Six months after you’ve received your grimoire, the entrance exam to get into the Royal Knights rolls around, and no one in the family is surprised when you announce your intention to take the exam. The heroics of being a Royal Knight appeals to you; you vividly remember hanging off your father’s every word when you were younger, when he would return from missions bearing sweets and toys for you, along with stories of what he’d done and what he’d seen. Being a Royal Knight is also the perfect means of evading the constrictions of the palace. You have no desire to marry a noble boy, most of whom are shallow and completely vapid.

You hold your father tight before he leaves, unable to grab enough of him. Becoming the Wizard King means that his schedule has become more demanding, and although he says that he’ll see you later, you take that to mean that he’ll see you back at the castle. You don’t expect to see him at the ceremony, since it isn’t mandatory for the Wizard King to attend.

Instead, it’s your Aunt Noelle who brings you to the famous Colosseum, where the exams take place every year. As a noble, you don’t technically have to take the exams, but you’d expressed a desire to, and seeing as it was harmless, your father had agreed. The arena is made of rough-hewn stone, and a swath of pure cerulean sky beams down upon you from the open roof.

She smiles down at you. “ **( Your Name )** , are you ready?”

“Yes!”

You’ve trained for the past few months. Defensive and supplementary spells come easily to you, but you’ve yet to unlock a real offensive spell. You wonder if you’re more suited for support on the battlefield, but your Aunt Noelle assures you that you’ll learn more spells in time.

“I’ll have to go in from the back with the other Magic Knights, but the main entrance is here.” Her smile turns rueful as she pulls you to a quiet alcove and touches the white sleeve of your furs. “This is pretty, by the way.”

“Daddy gave it to me.”

Uncle Solid had gifted you a new pair of purple cross flory fitchy hairpins, and Auntie Nebra had given you a brand new dress of purple and white. The neckline is heart-shaped, with skirts that flare from your hips and brush the tops of your knees.

“Then, this is my gift to you.”

She hands you a brown pouch, similar to her own, made of soft brown suede and embellished with gold buckles. You slot your grimoire into it and hug her as thanks. She smells of magnolia blossoms. She mumbles a token protest but holds you close all the same.

“Thank you. I’ll see you later.”

Your biceps give a spasm of resistance before you let go of your aunt.

You follow the steady stream of people trickling into the arena. Black winged birds are flapping overhead, but all of them give you a wide berth, flocking to others instead. Noting the stares you’re receiving from other hopeful candidates – sizing you up, looking at you in your outfit scrubbed shiny clean and new – you can’t help but think that this might have been a mistake after all. Your heart is propelling so much blood to your head that you’re getting dizzy. Your stomach turns with anxiety.

“Thank you for waiting, invited candidates.” It’s Yuno who speaks up, his voice magically amplified as he strides onto the upper viewing platform with the other captains. You glance around the room erupting into rambunctious cheers, already seeing cheeks glow with tell-tale luminescent blushes, furtive looks given to friends standing nearby. If Yuno notices, he gives no outward signs of discomfort. You try to emulate him, tuning out the whispers of how – _gag_ – cute some of the captains are. “I’m in charge of the exams. This year, we have a special guest watching, but everything will proceed as normal.”

As the murmurs start back up again, it’s your father who joins the rest of the Magic Knight Captains, settling himself elegantly into a hard-backed chair.

Still, you feel the tension leech out of your frame, your lips pulling up into a smile as you look up and catch his eye. Even as you feel the weight of pressure heavy on your shoulders, the knowledge that your father is present comforts you ever so slightly.

With introductions over, the tests begin.

You fly on a broomstick, your white-knuckles digging into the smooth wood. You use your mercury magic to shoot moving targets. You use your mercury magic to blast a wall of earth apart. You create a silver swarm of butterflies with your mercury, watch them flutter about the room, mimicking the butterflies lining the pit of your stomach.

“This is the last test.” Yuno says, pushing to his feet once again. “This time, you’ll pair up and engage in battle. You may use your grimoire. The match is over when a competitor gives up or can’t fight anymore. Healing mages are present, so everyone can fight freely.”

A stampede ensues as everyone moves off in pairs.

Everyone gives you a wide berth, and just as you’re scanning through the crowd for a friendly face, it’s an enormous boy with a bulbous forehead who saunters up to you, looks your small frame up and down, and shoots you an arrogant smile. His robes are made of silk, and if you have to hazard a guess, you think that he’s from a noble house as well. He offers to be your partner, launching into a tangent about how nobles should stick together while using the sweat from his palms to slick back curls the colour of pecan shells. You huff out a quiet laugh over the knotting in your stomach – is he _preening_ before a mock fight?

“The first pair, please step forward.”

“We’ll go first!” The Giant hollers, grabbing your wrist and hauling you forwards, into the empty floor in the middle of the arena. His fingers dig deep into your skin, leaving crescent shaped marks, but stubbornly, you don’t flinch, or pull away from him. “This’ll be over quickly!”

Yuno’s face hardens. “Begin.”

The Giant stampedes towards you, leading with his prism-shaped head. Crystals of ice fly from his outstretched palms, lowering the surrounding temperature and causing your words to be breathed out in an icy bubble. You counter by using your favorite spell, and wings of mercury bring you high into the air, gliding along on the minute air currents.

“Can’t run forever!” He comes after you again, conjuring spears made of ice and sending them shooting in your direction.

The barrage of spears are relentless, coming at you from all sides and directions, and hastily, you erect a shield of mercury. A gash on your cheek weeps blood. Frost forms across the barrier, coating it over with a layer of white. You can’t stay on the defensive forever.

“Get on the offensive, girly!” A boy yells from the sidelines, as if echoing your thoughts.

Your mind is filled with images.

You remember a devil with long, unnaturally thin limbs. You remember the face of your mother from another life, your hair pinned up and curling around your shoulders like hers. You remember your father from another life, his eyes warm, and his tone imparting confidence that you would grow to be a great mage in the future.

You remember.

_Why am I hesitating?_

You feel a rush of electricity, and your body warms considerably.

_I beat a devil._

The pages in your grimoire rustle as it opens, bathed in a warm, buttery glow; as you watch, flowing script fills up the blank page.

_I’m not stopping here._

Anger clouds your vision. “Mercury Magic – Origin Flash Barrage!”

As the words leave your lips, magic pouring off your body in waves, you think that you’ve seen this spell before. A different version of it, perhaps. Licht had wielded his sword to deliver a multitude of slashes with ease, and now, you watch your own magic mimic his in an unorthodox, if effective version.

This time, it’s your mercury shooting up and out in lethal, jagged spikes. They curl and unfurl from the air like fingers crooked in your opponent’s direction. Slithering like tongues darting out. They don’t just appear from the air; they erupt from the ground as well, cleaving through the stone of the floor like a knife through hot butter.

Your opponent freezes in place like the ice he wields, with little malevolence left to sustain him. You don’t hesitate. You call out the spell again, sending more mercury at him. Thumps like God’s hammer and a rushing like the heaviest rapids fill your ears. Bits of plaster and stone rain down onto your back. The ground shakes beneath your feet, dust obscuring your vision.

When the dust settles, only then do you realize what you’ve done.

You’ve clean destroyed the floor, and the walls of the venue. The other candidates stand a safe distance away, staring at the piles of debris that part of the area has been reduced to, staring at you and your four-leafed grimoire, staring at your opponent on the floor, like a massive, felled tree, his face and body a mass of bright red cuts.

It’s as silent as a graveyard.

“You were right. The match did end rather quickly.” You say, coolly. Then, remembering your manners, you sweep your skirts into a curtsey, one at his unconscious body, the other at the watching captains. “It was a pleasure fighting you.”

 _Send the bill to the Wizard King,_ you add mentally, managing to school your face into a neutral expression that doesn’t betray the storm of emotions within you, before leaving in a swish of skirts.

You only return to the venue once the last battle is over. The venue now resembles a construction site, and you have to wince at the sheer damage that you’ve caused. When you glance up at your father, you’re able to detect the sliver of pride brightening his eyes and tugging the edges of his lips up into a semblance of a smile, despite the fact that he’s probably going to have to use the Royal Funds to repair the arena.

“Number 321.”

_That’s you._

You feel your knees turn to jelly.

You force yourself to just keep breathing as you push yourself to the front of the room.

And you wait.

To your surprise, Uncle Solid is the first to raise his hand. _Did Daddy have to bully him into choosing you?_ The sardonic thought pulls your lips up into a distorted smile, but it quickly fades from your expression. The roses are drained out of your cheeks, your jaw falling slack as you realize . . . Uncle Solid isn’t the only captain who wants you. Yuno has his hand raised, and Uncle Leopold as well.

_In fact –_

“No way! All the captains raised their hands?!”

With your heart in your throat, and a strange burning in your eyes, you raise your gaze upwards, and declare, “I choose the Black Bulls!”

And so begins your life as a full-fledged Magic Knight.


End file.
